


The Sins of the Father

by Miss_Femm



Category: Old Dark House (1932)
Genre: 1900s, Family Drama, Gothic, Illegitimacy, cw: mentions of incestuous relations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 13:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Femm/pseuds/Miss_Femm
Summary: “They used to say Morgan had your eyes, Saul. If my own eyes were not growing so dim, I should like to look into the brute’s face and know the truth.” (Pre-canon. Takes place in 1905.)





	The Sins of the Father

On cold winter evenings, the Femm family tolerated one another’s company beside the fireplace. Rebecca would arrange flowers from the garden, while Sir Femm dozed off. Horace and Saul were not wont to speak with one another, most likely because Horace made it no secret that he was terrified of his older brother, a fellow who showcased erratic, violent behavior which only grew worse the older he became.

Indeed, Horace was unnerved by the entire house, which had taken on the quality of a tomb since Rachel died fifteen years ago and their father grew more and more reclusive in his old age. Or perhaps the rotten place had always been so wet, so cold. Perhaps his having been out in the world only made him realize how insulated the Femm house was, shut away from civilization, surrounded by wilds and rocks and wolves.

To look upon the Femms would make the viewer know misery all at once. Sir Femm seemed a part of his great armchair, already withering away in his seventies, white hair wispy about his receding face. Saul was approaching middle age, still somewhat handsome, though his unkempt hair and cold eyes would prevent anyone from finding him much in the way of charming. Rebecca had always seemed matronly, even at thirty-four. Dressed all in black, her hair tied into a severe knot at the back of her neck, she looked as though she were going to attend someone’s funeral as she arranged flowers in a vase. And finally, there was Horace—gaunt and skeletal, even in his mid-thirties.

As they all sat there by the fire, their features rendered grotesque in the harsh light, Horace wondered about Rachel. Rachel, so gay and pretty, by and large the beauty of the Femm children. Rachel, whose very middle name was scandal—though naturally, the biggest one of all never came to light. Somehow. The knowledge remained within the family. His gaze flitted over to Morgan, standing by Rebecca’s side, holding a few Easter lilies in his stiff, awkward arms. He was fifteen years old, the youngest thing in the whole house, yet he too seemed to reek of death.

Sometimes, he felt Rachel had been lucky to die at twenty-one. At least she was rotting in a grave and not among the living, if one could call daily existence in the Femm house life. If only he hadn’t made his own mistakes in civilization… if only he could walk out of this house and not be pursued…

But what was the use of regret? Horace finished his cup of gin and went to pour himself another. Rebecca glanced up from her work, then scowled. Horace grinned, raising the newly filled glass to her. The pleasures of gin-drinking were dual: the effects of the lovely drink itself and the effects its very smell had upon his righteous sister, who considered even wine a drink for sinners.

“I do wonder why we keep that dumb brute,” said Horace. “We once had such nicer servants waiting on us.”

“Servants shouldn’t converse,” said Sir Femm, voice as brittle as a reed in a storm. “If anything, Morgan is an improvement.” There was silence for a moment before the old man spoke again, his tone suggesting he very well knew he was going to stir some drama. “They used to say Morgan had your eyes, Saul. If my own eyes were not growing so dim, I should like to look into the brute’s face and know the truth.”

“What is truth?” said Saul, smiling like a misbehaving child. Rebecca rolled her eyes, which was not unnoticed by her brother. Saul smirked at Rebecca. “Shame he hasn’t your eyes, after all, my dear sister? Those lovely, beady little things—like a beetle!” Suddenly, he broke out into a parody of childlike laughter that turned Horace’s blood to ice.

“You shut your vile tongue!” Rebecca shouted, shooting a lethal glance up from her flower-arranging.

“Perhaps he’s some of his mother’s gentler nature,” said Horace, lips curling upward.

Rebecca snorted derisively. “That woman wasn’t gentle…”

“Has anyone ever told you not to speak ill of the dead?” asked Horace.

“I speak ill of the wicked and she was the wickedest of them all.”

“You’re so uncharitable, Rebecca,” said Horace. “Not everyone can walk among the saints as you do.”

“And it takes much to be able to walk with the devil and laugh about it,” snapped Rebecca. She crushed one of the lilies she was arranging. Muttering under her breath, she tossed it into the fire. “No more talk of her! I will not endure it.”

“We weren’t talking of her. We were talking about Morgan’s eyes.”

“Morgan’s eyes… the sins of Ammnon…” said Saul with a cackle.

Rebecca trembled, though with fury or fear it was hard to tell. “It is good we no longer see guests, Saul… you boast of your own debauchery and would shame the Femm name even further.”

“I thought you liked tales from the holy book, little sister,” said Saul.

“Silence!” snapped Rebecca. “I won’t hear blasphemy! I won’t! I won’t!”

“Would you all kindly shut up?” asked Sir Femm, eyes closed. “I was trying to nap.”

“But father, you instigated this fascinating theological discussion,” said Horace, frowning when his father showed no appreciation for his remark.

“I won’t sit here and endure these insults, father!” shouted Rebecca, throwing her flowers aside and standing up. “Morgan! Follow me!”

“We need Morgan here to tend to us, dear sister,” said Saul, sounding out every word with cruel deliberateness. “How could we manage alone?”

“Nonsense!”

“Keep the brute here, Rebecca. See yourself to bed,” said Sir Femm. “Pray if you must.”

Rebecca trembled more still. Horace noticed her eyes shining, though she stalked away before he could see whether they were filling with tears. Wouldn’t that be something? Then he glanced over the armchair at Morgan. The boy seemed like a specter, only his outline and the reflection of the fire in his brooding eyes visible in the darkness. For a moment, they did seem so much like Saul’s: there was the same sense of a latent feral child waiting to murder them all in their sleep.

“What a charming lot we are,” sighed Horace, turning back to the fire and lifting a glass of gin to his mouth.

Saul licked his lips. “You are wise, Horace. A good drink would do us all good.” Then he turned his attentions to Morgan. “Boy, how about some spirits for the lot of us? Perhaps I’ll even share.”

As the butler walked off, Horace observed his father sleeping. The old man barely stirred; one could almost believe he was dead, but he knew better. The way things were, it felt sometimes that the old man would outlive all of them. His attention turned to his brother. Saul stared into the fire, the flames mirrored almost perfectly in his eyes. Unfortunately, Saul realized he was being looked at and locked eyes with him.

“Did you know there is nothing cleaner than fire, dear brother?”

“O-Oh, I’m sure…” He took another swig of gin.

“It’s true!” Saul insisted. “Why do you think condemned houses are burned? Or witches?” He cackled again. “Because fire takes away all that is disgusting and unholy in the eyes of the Lord…”

“Ah, I see,” said Horace, wondering when Morgan would return. He did so hate all of this religious talk that so enamored his surviving siblings. For all the trouble Rachel caused, she never preached sermons about wickedness. “Though that does beg the question, if hell is filled with fire, shouldn’t it be the purest place of all?”

“Mmm,” said Saul, leaning back in his chair. “Clever, clever…” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps the damned suffer in the fire because there are some things that can never be clean—not truly clean.” His gaze settled on their dozing father, a look that burned. “Look at that old lech… the way he talks about me… as though there aren’t dozens of unclaimed little Femms running through England on his account, eh? I make one and he comes close to disowning me.”

Horace shifted uncomfortably. It was more than leaving behind an illegitimate child—it was even more than leaving behind a large, unspeaking brute of an illegitimate child. But he did not wish to bring any of that up—not with Saul on the edge of madness, a perilous place he had been for the past few years now.

Luckily, Morgan returned with a bottle before Saul could speak any further on the subject. Saul grinned and clapped the boy on the back, taking the bottle from him.

“Swift, swift! I shall reward you, Morgan!” He uncorked the bottle and offered it back to Morgan. “Take a drink!”

The boy was often inexpressive, little more than a dumb creature as far as Horace was concerned, so it was shocking to see something like gratitude in Morgan’s eyes as he took the cup from Saul. Grunting his thanks, he gulped a mouthful, some of the drink running down his already stubbled chin. The boy made a strange face—clearly getting used to the strength of the stuff—before handing it back to Saul.

“Rebecca won’t like you giving the boy drink,” said Horace.

“To hell with Rebecca,” said Horace before taking a swig directly from the bottle. He handed it back to Morgan. “Finish it off, my boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Always headcanoned that Morgan was an illegitimate Femm, judging by the way the other Femms get a bit reluctant when discussing him. They're the quite the messed up bunch as it is.


End file.
